I'm Sorry for the Things Anxiety Makes Me Do

I’m sorry for what my anxiety makes me do. And I want you to know it’s not me, it’s my anxiety. It’s not who I am fully, it’s just a piece of me.

Anxiety makes me talk too fast or not at all. It makes me stay up too late and toss and turn until it’s 3 a.m. and my mind is still running a marathon. Anxiety makes me have dark circles under my eyes that not even a 30 dollar concealer can combat them. It makes my eyes burn in the morning when I’m looking up at the sun trying to shake away the exhaustion. It makes me fucking tired.

I’m sorry for what my anxiety makes me do. And you need to know it’s not me. It’s not who I am or who I want to be. It’s anxiety.

Anxiety makes me want to go nonstop. It makes me go go go until I run out of steam. Anxiety makes me break over and over again. It makes me say things I shouldn’t say. It makes me spill secrets that shouldn’t have been shared to me. It makes me talk behind people’s back, hissing at someone else’s personality, just to feel a bit more alive.

Anxiety makes me stay inside when the weather is bright and beautiful. It makes me not go out with friends and family even when I really want to. It makes me take a pill every single morning, to combat the demons in my mind.

Anxiety makes me think the worst things about myself.

It says I’m not good enough. That I’m not strong enough. That I’ll always be alone. That I’ll always feel like this. That my friends aren’t really my true friends. That he never loved me. That I’ll never get over him no matter how much time has passed.

Anxiety turns me into a darker version of myself. It turns me into a person who stutters. Who can’t drink too much coffee. Who is afraid of love. It makes me cancel and re-plan. It makes me isolate myself from everyone I love. It makes me tired. It makes it so hard to breathe when all I want to do is breathe.

Anxiety makes me hide my hands from people so they don’t see my unmanicured fingers. It makes me hate everyone and everything. It makes me think there is no point in daylight. That there’s too much darkness in the world to even imagine.

So I’m sorry for what my anxiety makes me do. I’m sorry for what my anxiety tells me. I’m sorry for canceling. I’m sorry for the drunken texts. I’m sorry for the biting of my fingers until they bleed. I’m sorry for trying to breathe. I’m sorry for talking too fast in order for my brain to catch up with my thoughts.

I’m sorry for thinking too much. I’m sorry for not being able to shut it off. I’m sorry to my brain. I’m sorry you have to deal with this.

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